Blessing Page 11

  Gerard stood. “She’s in shock. Is there a bed for her? I’ll carry her.”

  “I can do that.” A young black man approached. He’d been watching around the edge of the window shade. He nudged the toddlers toward one of the young women and carried the wet nurse out of the kitchen.

  “Joanna, I’ll come up soon,” Blessing called after the younger woman. “Get Theodosia out of that burned clothing and wrap her in blankets.”

  Gerard let the widow push him back into his chair.

  “I am going to wash the soot from thy face and then anoint thy wounds.”

  “Wounds?”

  “From burning debris in the air. Thee suffered small burns and cuts all over thy face, hands, and neck.”

  “So did you,” he said, touching her face. Her bonnet had slipped down and her bun had lost pins and sagged over her left ear. Black soot smudged her complexion. He stroked her cheek without thinking of propriety, trying to reconcile its softness with her staunch bravery. He was still in disbelief that she’d tried to run into a burning building. She was mad; she was fearless.

  “My bonnet protected me. But thee lost thy hat, and—” she felt the back of his head—“thee must have been hit with a sizable stone.”

  He winced at her touch. “How has this all happened? Out of nowhere.”

  “Not out of nowhere,” Mrs. Coxswain said. She gently rocked the baby. “Cincinnati is a main conduit for the Underground Railroad, and that angers slaveholding Kentucky, right across the river. Businessmen here are concerned about their profits.”

  “And the prejudice against free blacks is always there, just under the surface,” Tippy added. “Some whites resent that, in spite of all the prejudice against them, their industry and skill succeed. They don’t keep to their place, you see.”

  Gerard tried to take it all in, but the gentle yet confident touch of Blessing’s hand as she treated his cuts claimed all his attention. Finally he caught her wrist. The widow was caring for his hurts when she needed tending as well. “Miss Foster, Mrs. Brightman requires your attention.”

  “Oh!” Tippy turned away from Stoddard and their murmured conversation. The young socialite shoved Blessing into a chair and accepted a fresh basin of water.

  A black woman he assumed was the cook set cups of coffee and plates of sliced bread with butter and honey in front of Gerard and Stoddard. “Eat,” she ordered.

  He didn’t argue. The coffee was strong, and the bread and butter did much to restore his strength. While he ate, he watched Tippy tend the widow’s cuts and small burns. Blessing had closed her eyes and tilted her face upward. Her expression spoke of weariness and distress. He’d never met anyone like her in his life. She needed someone to protect her from herself.

  He thought of the play and his motive behind inviting this woman to it. His machinations all seemed so ludicrous in light of subsequent events. This night had shaken him. Its images and sounds still blazed in his mind.

  Gerard woke suddenly, a crick in his neck. He found himself lying on a sofa in a strange parlor, his head propped on the stiff arm. Gray dawn was lighting the windows and the house was silent. He tried to sit up but found a small child sprawled half on his chest. Like a cold rushing river, the events of last night washed over him.

  Had he really run into a burning building? Caught a woman and children dropped from a window, lost his hat, and faced down a mob with his Colt? This couldn’t be real.

  “His name is Scotty,” Blessing’s voice murmured through the dimness. “He was frightened and discovered thee here.”

  His mind scrambled before he could ask, “He’s one of your orphans?”

  “Yes.”

  Gerard carefully lifted the child, who must have been younger than school age, and sat up, extending his legs the length of the sofa. That the sofa was not as long as he was tall accounted for the crick in his neck, and in his current position he had nowhere to lay the child. He settled the boy on his lap, wondering why the child still didn’t stir.

  Gerard could hear the soft sounds of others sleeping in the room, people whose presence he hadn’t fully registered until now. The dawn grew gradually brighter. He glanced down to see, dimly, the shapes of his cousin and Tippy sleeping side by side on the parlor carpet. As their chaperone, Deborah Coxswain was snoozing in a rocker across the room, her white hair stark in the low light. Tippy and his cousin lying so close, so intimate, did not upset him as much as he would have expected under normal circumstances. They looked right together.

  He noticed that the widow, seated in a nearby armchair, was gazing at him. “I’ve decided thy cousin will not be a dreadful husband for Tippy.”

  He was startled by her touching on the same topic he had been thinking of. He didn’t know what to say.

  Blessing’s face was still hidden in the shadows. She also had a child resting on her lap. “Who’s that?” he asked, switching subjects. He gestured toward her child.

  “This is Daniel Lucas, the boy I rescued the first time I ran into thee at the wharf. I have decided to adopt him.”

  Gerard didn’t know how to respond to this. The child in his arms let out something like a whimper, and Gerard pulled him closer, reassuring him.

  “What kind of man is thee, Gerard Ramsay?”

  Blessing’s question startled him. He stared across at her but avoided answering. “You are in a strange mood, ma’am.”

  “What kind of man is thee, Gerard Ramsay?”

  Her repetition of the question irritated him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “We are here alone in the gray dawn. Be honest. Why did thee invite me to the play, knowing that I couldn’t go?”

  “Why couldn’t you go?” he said, not liking his own feigned ignorance or the defensiveness in his tone.

  “My late husband was not a Friend. I was put out of the meeting when I married him. I won’t do anything that will cause me to risk shunning again.”

  “The Quaker elders didn’t like you marrying a brewer?” he asked with a sneer in his tone.

  “Thee will not evade me. What kind of man is thee? Why did thee come to my rescue last night? Why did thee face a mob bent on destroying this orphanage and driving out those who’d come here for refuge?”

  “I’m not a saint,” he snapped, “just because I will not allow a woman and her children to be burned alive or allow a mob to attack helpless orphans. It merely means I was raised to be a gentleman. That’s all.”

  “I think thee could be much more—”

  “Don’t try to reform me, Friend. I’ve always found that the prim and proper have a dark sin they’re trying to make up for. What’s your sin, Blessing Brightman? What have you done that you have to hide?”

  A ray of true dawn light flared in over the curtains, casting itself full onto Blessing’s face. Her expression grabbed him. She looked as if he’d jabbed her with a sizzling, white-hot poker. Gerard inhaled sharply. He’d hit the mark, all right. And found himself as astonished as she. What was the widow’s secret sin?

  OCTOBER 2–4, 1848

  Two days later, with all honest citizens hunkered down in their homes or their closed businesses, in fear for their lives, the mayor finally seemed to realize that he’d lost control of the mobs and that a city in lawless chaos was far worse for business than the presence of free black people.

  The police issued a call for volunteers to help them regain order. Deputized citizens formed patrols and arrested any man who was causing trouble on the streets. The city jail and courts were jammed, but peace was eventually restored.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Blessing stood on the orphanage’s covered back porch and rested her forehead against a post. She felt as if she’d been through a war. Now she must face the aftermath and whatever changes it brought. She tried not to dwell on Ramsay’s question about her secret sin—a sharp blade in her side.

  Brother Ezekiel, his family, and some members of his flock who’d weathered the riots at the orphanage approached her. “We
want to thank you again for sheltering us.”

  “I wish I could do more,” she said simply. “If any of thee needs a roof, come back. If we run out of room in the orphanage, there is always the loft above the carriage house.”

  “We will keep that in mind.”

  “I’m takin’ my family out of Cincinnati as soon as I can pack,” one man said. “We’re goin’ to Canada. We’re not safe here.”

  Blessing couldn’t blame them—but how would the Underground Railroad function effectively without free blacks in the city to run the stations? She didn’t voice this. It was unnecessary.

  The group left, walking close together, the women and children in the middle. The men all carried clubs or sticks.

  Blessing left her place against the railing and sat on the top step. She hoped she never had to face anything like this again. But only God knew what lay ahead.

  In spite of her efforts, Ramsay’s question continued to haunt her every waking thought. “What’s your sin, Blessing Brightman?” In her mind, Richard’s face stretched in shock, and she heard her own scream. She shut her eyes, forcing away the memory. Blessing knew that God could forgive her, had forgiven her long ago. But forgiving herself loomed as an impossible task.

  She blinked back tears. Life would continue to go on, often lonely and exhausting on some deep level. She couldn’t deal with the past right now. She had children depending on her, and she must press on regardless of past mistakes, past sins.

  Gerard was loath to visit the docks tonight, but he’d received a summons from Mr. Smith and, though affronted, knew he must go.

  As he opened Mrs. Mather’s door, Stoddard hailed him from the parlor. “Where are you off to?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Stoddard approached and stared at him. “The papers say men should still travel in pairs. People died in the riots, Cousin.”

  “I have my Colt.”

  “Who has your back?”

  Gerard merely waved and marched off. He tried to put away reflections on what had happened during the riots. Yet the past few days had cast his mind into a darkness that wouldn’t lift. Tonight he found himself alert to danger on the one hand, yet most of his mind was occupied with remembrances—flames leaping against the night sky, people running through the streets, a mob threatening an orphanage.

  However, two stark memories bedeviled him more than the others: the look on the widow’s face in the light of dawn and the feel of a little boy seeking his protection. Once more he tried to shake them off, unsuccessfully. “What kind of man is thee, Gerard Ramsay?”

  The docks were littered with debris, and Gerard noticed a greater number of night watchmen than usual, along with deputized citizens. The ugliness of the riverfront glared at him. He entered the same tavern as before and found it crowded. Many of the patrons sported bruises, burns, and cuts, just as he did.

  He went directly to Mr. Smith at his customary table.

  “Mr. Ramsay.” The man greeted him in his quiet yet sneering voice.

  Gerard wondered whether Smith practiced sounding this way or whether it was natural. “Evening.” He took a seat across from the man, who, as always, sat with his back to the wall.

  “You look a bit worse for wear,” Smith observed.

  Gerard shrugged.

  “I hear you protected the good widow from the rioters.”

  These words dismayed Gerard. How did Smith know? “Having me watched?”

  Smith chuckled mirthlessly. “I told you once that Mrs. Brightman is a thorn in my garden.”

  Gerard stared at the man. Did this mean that Smith had something to do with the mob that had followed them to Blessing’s door? “I am a gentleman. When a lady requires protection, it is my duty to provide it.”

  This time Smith laughed out loud. “And what does the widow provide for you?”

  The thick innuendo in the man’s tone drew Gerard to his feet, hands fisted. “I do not know what you mean.” The stiff words felt like nails on his tongue. “I came to discuss business, not to bandy about a respectable woman’s name.”

  “Sit down,” Smith ordered. “I have a few names for you. Men I think might be eager for a racetrack and for a sure investment. They won’t deal directly with me but will probably do business with you, a gentleman.”

  Remaining on his feet, Gerard ignored the man’s tone, bristling at the order to sit. “Always remember, Smith, I am your business contact and nothing more.”

  Something flashed in the man’s eyes. Anger? Or darker than that? Smith visibly commanded himself. “Of course. Understand—I don’t want to be associated with a Boston prig any more than you want to be associated with me.”

  Gerard accepted the list of names Smith held out and vacated the tavern. Outside the door he again felt a surge of caution. Maybe he needed to drop this racetrack idea. Smith was not a man he desired to fraternize with in any way.

  “Well, hello.”

  The familiar voice halted Gerard. It was Kennan, loitering outside the tavern.

  “So how did you enjoy the riots?” Kennan went on. “I had a great time.”

  Gerard was caught between several reactions—surprise, relief to see Kennan here and alive, and a desire to cuff him on the side of his head. Riots, fun? He mastered himself. “I knew I’d seen you around the city. When did you come west? Why are you here?”

  Kennan ignored the first question but answered the second. “I came to an agreement with my stepfather. He will continue my allowance, provided I move away from New England. I’m the black sheep—” Kennan grinned with satisfaction—“and they want me out of sight.”

  Gerard looked at Kennan, suddenly understanding why his friend was drinking and running away from family. He, Stoddard, and Kennan remained the unwanted sons they’d been at boarding school. But he chose not to broach the subject at present. “When did you get into town?” he repeated.

  “A while back. Wanted to see what drew stuffy Stoddard to this place. Frankly I can’t comprehend its allure except for that radical blonde female he’s besotted with.”

  “Exactly how long is ‘a while’?” Gerard pressed.

  “Oh, I saw you arrive.”

  Gerard recalled that he thought he’d spied Kennan on the wharf that day. “Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “You’re getting as uptight as Stoddard, or so I thought till I heard you were trying to get a racetrack started. That will embarrass your father, all right. Well done.” Kennan beamed at him. “Let’s go have a drink to that.”

  Gerard did not like hearing his motivation said aloud. He studied his old school friend’s face and noted his bloodshot eyes and unshaven face. The last thing Kennan needed was another drink. But Gerard couldn’t say that.

  When Kennan tried to draw him back into the tavern he’d just exited, Gerard resisted. “Let’s go elsewhere. I don’t like the company in there.”

  “You mean Mr. Smith?” Kennan chuckled. “All right. Lead on. Just make sure it’s a place where they don’t water the gin.”

  Gerard claimed Kennan’s elbow and led him toward the neighborhood tavern on the rise above the wharf. He hadn’t realized that Kennan knew of Smith. What did that mean for Gerard, for Kennan?

  OCTOBER 5, 1848

  Gerard woke and wondered if he’d died during the night. His head felt as if it had been split in two. He could barely open his eyes, and hammers pounded behind them. He slowly sat up. A mistake. Dropping to his knees, he quickly snatched his chamber pot and retched. When the heaving finally ceased, he slid to the floor and lay on the carpet, gasping for breath.

  He tried to focus and clear his mind, but clarity eluded him. Flashes from the night before—raucous laughter, standing at a bar with Kennan, scantily clad women . . .

  He groaned and the sound hurt his ears. What happened last night? Where had he been? What had he done to feel this way?

  Gerard lay still, gasping for air and forcing his mind to work. Eventually he recalled meeting Kennan after his
interview with Smith. They’d gone to his neighborhood tavern . . .

  But they hadn’t stayed there. He’d intended to go home afterward. Why hadn’t he?

  He rubbed his face with both hands. In his youth he’d often suffered morning-after spells from overindulgence, but he’d never experienced one where he couldn’t recall what he’d done the night before. What could have caused me to go on a bender? I must remember.

  He rose tentatively to sit on the side of his bed. The sun shone bright at the window, so he averted his gaze to the patterned carpet. Sudden thirst prompted him to try to stand to go downstairs. But he realized he must become more presentable before he could enter the kitchen and beg some coffee. His stomach lurched at the thought, but he knew he must eat something, and coffee would help his headache.

  Moving like an old man so he wouldn’t disturb his hammering head, he went through his morning routine and managed to shave using cold water, with only a few nicks. After finishing, he walked carefully down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen.

  Just before entering, a thought occurred to him. Had his Quaker landlady seen him intoxicated? He’d been warned about her standards. Maybe he’d been lucky and she hadn’t witnessed his arrival. How had he gotten home, anyway? Why couldn’t he remember the night more clearly?

  Gerard entered the kitchen, relieved to find the big-boned, red-haired cook alone. He eased down at the table in the center of the room. “I overslept. Do you still have coffee and something for me to eat? Please.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “I be thinking ye dipped too deep last night.”

  Gerard stared at her, begging with his eyes.

  “All right. You look that sick. But don’t ye be expecting this again.”

  “I am under the weather.”

  “Is that what you call it in Boston?” She raised her eyebrows in starched disapproval. When she set a mug of coffee in front of him, he cringed at the sound. She looked at him with pity and made him some dry toast. “Try to keep this down, child.”

  “Thank you,” he muttered. He nibbled the bread and sipped the steaming coffee, praying he wouldn’t be sick again.